


Screw Your Courage

by inlovewithnight



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Screw Your Courage

She leaves the magazine open on the table--a one-pager, not a spread, but the picture's good. Sam at the top of the stairway, just stepping out of the plane and into the sun, and her a half-pace ahead of him, caught precisely at the moment when her leg is extended to show off shoe and suit to the best advantage. She's not supposed to care about fashion, but she does care about the reactions of people who care.

The picture's good. She wants him to see it when he gets home.

She hears the door open and shifts on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling and sipping her drink. His footsteps cross the floor--one, two, five--_pause_, just about at the table. She takes another sip and holds the liquor on her tongue, letting it burn while she waits.

He steps into the doorway and she swallows, then smiles, a curve of her mouth that doesn't show any teeth. "_Power Couple_?" he says, loosening his tie. "That's the headline?"

She sets her glass on the bedside table. _Figures._ "The picture's good."

"The picture's great. I just mourn the loss of competence in headline-writing."

"What about the subhead?"

He glances at her and shrugs his jacket off. "I missed the subhead."

"'But Who Has the Power?'" she quotes, tugging her shirt off over her head. "See, it's funny 'cause it implies you're castrated."

"I don't find that funny at all."

"It wasn't really for you." She shrugs her bra straps off her shoulders and starts to undo the catches in the back.

He pauses in loosening his tie, cocking his head a little. "What are you doing?"

"Answering their question." She tosses the bra aside and leans back on her elbows. "C'mere."

He crosses over to the bed, a slight, puzzled smile on his face. "Amy, what..."

"Senator Seaborn," she says, reaching up to catch his tie and wind it around her hand, pulling him in. "You're one of the most closely-watched rising stars in the freshman class. But some people say you're overly influenced by that shrill, ball-busting feminist bitch you married."

"I don't recall marrying any shrill, ball-busting feminist bitches."

"Oh, good answer." She winds his tie another twist around her hand and kisses him, slow and deep, letting her tongue wander around the shape of his mouth. "I don't think it's gonna fly with the press, though."

"Good thing they would never actually say that."

"They say that a million different ways, baby." She closes her eyes as he cups one of her breasts in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin. "You're just naive."

"I've known you too long to be naive," he protests, leaning into her until she lies back and lets go of his tie. He straddles her thighs and slides his hands up under her skirt, teasing the line of her panties.

"Hasn't been all that long, babe." Her eyes are still closed, and she unbuttons his shirt by touch, sliding her fingers over the rich fabric to feel the lines of his body underneath. She arches her hips up as his fingers hook in the waistband, letting him tug her panties down to her knees. She's already starting to get wet, halfway to fired up and ready to go; he's half an hour late and she's been lying here without much to do except let her mind and fingers wander.

"Long enough to learn." He lowers his head to mouth at her breasts, tracing his tongue in lazy arcs and biting down lightly, kissing the sensitive underside and sucking lightly at her nipples. There's something almost mannered about his attentions, ever so slightly distracted.

"I've still got lots to teach you...oh." She bites her lower lip as he slides two fingers into her, twisting a little against the sheets. "Y-yeah."

"I'm a fast learner."

She slides her hands down his torso to his trousers, rubbing her palm lazily against the swell of his cock. "The Democratic Caucus is glad to hear it."

"I hope I'm not in bed with the Democratic Caucus."

"I'm a lot better-looking." She cups his face in her hands and pulls him down to kiss again, thrusting her tongue into his mouth roughly, trying to get his attention zeroed in on her here and now. She _likes_ his ambitions, she's encouraged them, she's shaped and molded him through them to make the political play of _both_ their dreams, but sometimes...

...sometimes a girl just wants her husband to fuck her. Old, boring story.

He sits up enough to undo his trousers, pushing them down off his hips along with his boxer-briefs, and she drops one hand from his face to his dick, stroking steady and tight. "No more talking about work," she tells him, watching with satisfaction as his focus narrows to her.

Of course he can't resist the urge to be a smartass, though. "But Amy, we are our work."

"Sam?" She tightens her hand a little, just enough to make him close his eyes and bite his lip, just enough to make him shiver. "Shut up."

"Yeah," he said, nodding, and she starts moving her hand again by way of reward. "Okay."

The thing is, Sam Seaborn is never going to be the love of Amy's life, and she never wanted him to be. She can't be that for him, either; maybe if they'd met when they were a hell of a lot younger. Or maybe if they'd met in another era entirely, some point in the life of the country when being an incurable liberal meant something other than an endless fucking round of disappointment and compromise and regrouping and pain.

A few turns around that cycle took something out of you, and it never did quite come back again. You just learn to look for something else that would fit in the gaps where your heart used to be. He gets that, and she gets that, and that's good enough.

Call them a couple of heartless cynical assholes--and people had--but he felt good moving inside her, and she gives a hell of a blowjob, and they both like reading an assortment of newspapers and yelling at the articles, and watching the political talk shows and yelling at them, too, and they both had an appreciation for Scotch and cigars, and together they were going to _change_ things.

Some things, at least. A handful of things. One fucking thing each, and they'd have them on their tombstones like goddamn medals.

"Amy," he gasps, and she wraps her legs up around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. She likes to fuck, she's spent her life trying to get the point across that women do and can and should like to fuck as much as any man. Sam likes that about her, which definitely falls in the category of why they work in the first place.

She drags her nails down his back and he groans, lowering his head and biting at her breast again, hard enough this time that she arches up and curses. No low-cut shirts for her this week, then. That's all right; she's always prepared.

These days, that's what she does. She prepares. Hers are the battle plans, and his are the guns.

He turns his head and kisses her neck, his mouth working against that sensitive spot under her ear, the place that makes her squirm like electricity's running through her. She runs one hand down between them, letting her nails scrape against his torso until she gets to where they meet. She slides her fingers through the damp curls between her legs to her clit and presses, circles, gives the little extra edge her body need to go up and over and spasm tight around him, which is all he needs as well.

She knows him. They work pretty good together. Power fucking couple.

They lie in a sweaty tangle, his breath hot against her neck and her fingers combing absently through his hair, the bite marks on her tits starting to sting. Probably the scratches on his back are, too. She doesn't ask. He's still inside her, and it feels warm and full and not quite comfortable, though she doesn't try to move.

"You know that lunch is tomorrow," he mumbles against her neck, and she nods. "I'm probably going to have a vote."

"I've got it."

"Who's the lucky target?" He's smiling, she can feel it against her skin and hear it in his voice. She smiles, too. This is their romance.

"Representative Easterbrook."

"Don't think I know him."

"You will after tomorrow." She closes her eyes and shifts against the sheets until their bodies are settled together.

She didn't save the other article that came out today, the one that called them "Senator and Lady MacBeth."

She's read that play. She can do it better.


End file.
